Sentences with phrase «magical time between»

We happen to be in that magical time between Canada Day and Independence Day for our cousins down south.

Date night, that magical time between careful child care arrangements and returning home to everyday chaos.

Activation is that magical time between when a customer discovers your product and when they fall in love with it.

Not exact matches

We will be doomed as a society when we fail to distinguish between reality and fantasy, wide awake time and dream time, when we sacrifice collective engagement to (re) solve together difficult problems for facination with rumors of conspiricy and a propensity for magical and delusional thinking.

There is a magical connection that happens between mother and child during breastfeeding and it is only fair to give dads that same bonding time.

Who: James Franco, Michelle Williams, Mila Kunis, Rachel Weisz and Zach Braff What: A small - time magician with questionable ethics arrives in a magical land and must choose between becoming a good man or a great one.

Based at the magical Misibis Bay my time was spent between being a mermaid in training, relaxing with cocktails by the beach and having little action adventures.

The circuit Maras - Moray tour is in the path of the Sacred Valley of the Incas, located between Urubamba and Chinchero, it is a very interesting and magical place of Cusco, in this tour we will visit the Salt mines of Maras still in function since ancient Inka times this place has over 3500 mines are still exploited craft to date.

Between now and 6 p.m. Saturday, when Gavin Brown Gallery closes its doors for the last time at its magical no - man's location between Soho, the Hudson River, and West Chelsea, the gallery is restaging one of the most iconic works of 1960s Conceptualism / Arte Povera / performance and installation art: Jannis Kounellis's Untitled (12 HBetween now and 6 p.m. Saturday, when Gavin Brown Gallery closes its doors for the last time at its magical no - man's location between Soho, the Hudson River, and West Chelsea, the gallery is restaging one of the most iconic works of 1960s Conceptualism / Arte Povera / performance and installation art: Jannis Kounellis's Untitled (12 Hbetween Soho, the Hudson River, and West Chelsea, the gallery is restaging one of the most iconic works of 1960s Conceptualism / Arte Povera / performance and installation art: Jannis Kounellis's Untitled (12 Horses).

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,